Liberté, égalité, inimitié
by 26Bentley
Summary: Ten years have passed. A promising young officer in the Navy gets an invitation to a party full of respectable society. And some not-so-respectable. Will eventually be slash. Chapters are very short, I write slowly, lol.
1. Chapter 1

It was a nice autumn afternoon in London, insofar as London gets nice afternoons in autumn. September had come sweeping over the great kingdom of Britain, and with it came crisp morning air, brown and orange leaves littering every park, lane and street, steely grey clouds and a wind which an optimist would describe as 'refreshing'.

Ralph had always been a bit of an optimist. Only when things were completely hopeless did he resign himself to his fate, and preferably not even then. It had only happened once, at any rate, and he, being a strong person, had decided that it would not happen again, if he had any say in the matter. Which he thankfully did.

However, as he straightened his tie, he couldn't help but wonder if this gala dinner, for there was no other way to describe it, might not be a little too much for him.

The duchess of Narborough, although a charming lady, was a lot of woman, and a lot for one man to handle, even for a couple of minutes. But she seemed to have taken a liking to the handsome young Navy officer who had been in the papers recently for rising so quickly to a high position (and then clearing up some mishap or other directly afterwards), and therefore had decided to invite him to her party. After all, he came from a respectable family, and should find his place among other respectable people from respectable families.

He inwardly groaned as he put on his almost-expensive tuxedo. The place was sure to be full of somewhat overweight ladies stuffed into too-small dresses and men smoking cigars that made him choke, and most likely the whole party wouldn't have one interesting topic of conversation between them. Unless he found someone or something to pass his time – and he very much doubted that he would – this was going to be a very long evening.

His nerves were somewhat frayed when he finally exited the house and fumbled to find his keys, afraid for a minute that he'd left them inside. The door was the type that locked when you shut it, and for most people that would be a nightmare, but for Ralph, who kept his things in impeccable order, it worked just fine.

As it turned out, he hadn't left them. Whistling (badly) some tune or other he'd heard on the radio that day, he walked to the garage and started the shiny new car.

--

The drive from his house to that of the Duchess was nerve-wrecking, long and took him through every layer of London, from the respectable but not overly expensive neighbourhood in which he had his flat, to the suburbs and the green grassy hell of wealth outside the city, which he had never visited before and wasn't really sure he wanted to see now.

Twice, he checked the invitation to see if he had mistaken the time.

Apparently there was to be some sort of concert as well, and he really had no wish to hear some dreadful new singer or musician the duchess just happened to adore and therefore insisted on subjecting the rest of London's society to, but he supposed there was just no way around it.

He turned on the car radio to get some peace of mind. It hardly worked. He didn't much like the artists of the day; their voices annoyed him. The music wasn't really to his taste. Then again, that might just be because it was made to be danced to, not listened to, and he had always hated to dance.

He wished he didn't have to go, he truly did. His gut feeling, which was usually more sensible than his brain, told him that this night would end in complete disaster. Since he had no idea how it could, unless he spilled wine on some rich woman in a cream-coloured dress, he told it to shut up. More sources of nervousness was really not what he needed.

As he arrived at the enormous mansion, however, he knew that he was perfectly composed, at least on the outside. His hair looked immaculate, his clothes no worse, his shoes shone. He'd checked all these things in the mirror. One thing his father had always been sure to remind him of, a respectable appearance was of the utmost importance.

A slightly foppish man at the door checked his name with the guest list, and then nodded at him, smiling pleasantly. It made him slightly uncomfortable. He smiled very quickly back before he went up a short flight of stairs and into the grand hall. He could feel the man's gaze on his back and tried to ignore it.

Guest list, he thought, repressing the urge to snort. You'd think it was the nineteenth century, or a royal ball.

He lifted his gaze. And wanted to leave the same way he'd entered.

Apparently there was a reason for the guest list. The room was enormous; the ceiling higher than any he'd seen before, and it was packed with filthy rich people with their noses high in the air.

It practically _was_ a royal ball. He'd walked straight into _Cinderella_, and he sure as heck didn't feel like a prince.

He grabbed a glass of champagne from the first waiter that came by, and took a large sip, trying to forget that he hated champagne. This was even worse than he'd thought.  
--


	2. Chapter 2

"Young Ralph Weatherton! I am so glad you could make it!"

A dainty, giggling laugh broke into his horrified reverie, and he tore his gaze away from the harrowingly huge chandelier, which sparkled almost too much to be bearable, and was treated to the sight of the current lady of Narborough, who sparkled almost as much.

In her case, however, it was due to all the diamonds she'd heaped around her neck.

She was clearly trying to look feminine in a magenta-coloured dress, but seeing as she wasn't exactly a nymph (in fact, there was something rather masculine about her large hands and jaw), the whole was less than stunningly beautiful. Stunning though, she certainly was.

Ralph smiled, hoping it didn't look too forced, but he could feel tension creeping into his shoulders as she grabbed him firmly by the elbow and steered him over to her table, at which several overdressed personages were already seated, and some more were standing around it with champagne glasses dangling from bejewelled fingers, talking about nothing.

He closed his eyes for a very brief moment, gathering the strength to say hello and be introduced to all the people in the lady's inner circle of friends.

Most of them were a lot like the duchess, and he knew he wouldn't remember one name when he got home. The exception to the rule was one young man, among the standing ones, who looked exceptionally bored. Ralph decided he was worth talking to, and the man seemed very pleased to have found someone else even remotely close to his own age.

The next hour passed slowly, but not horribly slowly. Just slowly enough to make a certain Navy officer wish something interesting would happen soon, and even wonder vaguely when the scheduled concert was to take place. Ralph had discovered that the young man's name was George, and he had a bit of interest in all things to do with the sea, so they had no problems talking.

As it turned out, George played the violin (somewhat reluctantly), and the Duchess had taken him in as one of her little protégés to show off like a poodle. His mouth visibly twisted as he talked about it, and Ralph chuckled. Maybe he would keep in touch with this fellow. He certainly was pleasant enough, all bright smiles and amber-brownish eyes under thick dark brown hair. A small catch at his mouth and the way he smiled lent something mischievous to otherwise aristocratic features.

--

Oscar Wilde once wrote that good music was a joy, but whenever one heard bad music, it was one's duty to drown it in conversation.

Ralph had read Oscar Wilde. The tale of Dorian Gray had made him shudder, and truth be told he'd never finished it, but there was no denying the man's genius. He intended to take old Oscar's advice and drown today's entertainment in conversation with George, who was proving to be more and more interesting as the minutes passed and he relaxed more.

Ralph was thoroughly enjoying himself now, and the champagne had probably done its bit in helping him lower his shoulders a little. The party was still a bit dull, but not the horror he'd envisioned. Maybe this would be okay after all.

Not two minutes had passed since that thought finished parading through his mind, when the duchess came over and tapped George on the shoulder. Bending down, she murmured something in his ear, giving him a fawning smile and a wink as she did so.

He tried not to roll his eyes, but failed miserably once she turned her back and left the corner he and Ralph had retreated to.

As it turned out, he was a part of the scheduled concert, along with his violin. With an apologetic smile at Ralph, he rose and made his way through the throng of people to the so-called stage. Ralph immediately regretted his decision to sit in the farthermost corner. Now he wouldn't be able to see George play.

He considered getting up and trying to get a better view, but there were too many people in the way, so he just remained where he was. After signalling discreetly to a passing waiter and getting a new glass of champagne, he leaned back in his chair and listened.

The duchess called for silence, and then the first resonant tones of a piano broke the stillness. George joined in later with an effortless and smooth melody, and even Ralph could appreciate the beauty of the composition, though he was no connoisseur.

The last to join in was a male voice. Ralph swore internally. He'd hoped there would be no singing.

Try as he might to shut the voice out, he couldn't. He tried to focus only on George's playing, but it didn't work. The insidious voice was so ingrained in the melody, so perfectly attuned to both the other instruments; it seemed to sneak in everywhere.  
In the end he was forced to acknowledge that the singer had talent.

There was clearly no microphone, or he would have heard him better. And yet the tones carried well, crystal clear and perfect, with just enough of a quiver to sound halfway operatic and entirely classical, but not enough to be disturbing. It was all seemingly without effort, too. He could even hear the pleased, relaxed smile in the voice of the performer, who was clearly enjoying himself.

Ralph ended up closing his eyes to get the full impression.

He vaguely registered that George was a very talented violinist, but the voice was nagging at him, and he wanted to _see _George, besides. He'd always thought violinists were a very graceful group of people.

Moving along the room, he finally found a spot where he could look between the heads of two gentlemen in front of him. It gave him a good view of George, as he bent his body around the violin cradled beneath his chin. His eyes were closed, and his mouth had something heavy to it, and the mischievous hint was gone. He looked entirely the aristocrat, fine fingers flying over the strings, an almost dainty angle to his wrist as he moved the bow across them.

Ralph was fascinated.  
But his eyes kept flickering to what little he could glimpse of the singer, who appeared to be a tall, thin fellow full of sharp angles. The fact that he couldn't see his face annoyed him immensely, but he shrugged it off.

George then turned a little and caught his eye, and the bright glance exchanged between them gave him the answer to something he'd been wondering all evening. Ralph smiled, relaxing further, and kept his eyes on the pretty fiddler for the rest of the song. He knew he would remember none of the music except for the strong angelic voice that was continually assaulting his eardrums, so he decided to make as many visual memories as possible instead.


	3. Chapter 3

"Ralph!" He turned, and there was George, smiling brightly. He'd lost sight of him in the jostling of bodies as everybody moved back to their seats or found new partners of conversation after the little concert, and so he'd decided to just go back to their corner table and wait.

"How'd I do? Was it all right? I thought it went pretty well."

Ralph grinned. "Yeah, it was great. Smooth, not a hitch." This earned him another brilliant smile. "Do you know who the singer is?"

George shrugged. "No idea. Another of Agatha's little protégés. About your age, I think. Twenty-two or something. Can't recall his name though." He lowered his voice a little. "Personally, I think he's horrid."

Ralph nodded, satisfied. "Okay."

"He's fantastic, I know." George looked slightly wry. "Nobody else gets any attention once he opens his mouth."

Ralph shook his head. "Nonsense. You got plenty attention. But I see what you mean, he was pretty damn hard not to notice."

"He does it on purpose. Limelight addict. Tells everyone how he used to – "

Just then the duchess interrupted them again. She seemed to think they shouldn't be sitting at this secluded corner table all by themselves, and she wanted them both to come with her instantly. With an amused glance, they followed like chastised schoolboys to her ladyship's table.

Once they'd found seats, she insisted on introducing Ralph to the pianist, who was a pale lad of around nineteen, with washed-out blonde hair and a somewhat weak chin. He smiled amiably enough, and he apparently was the son of some lord or other, but Ralph paid no attention. His eyes kept meeting George's over the table, and it was a very nice feeling to finally have found someone he could connect with.

George was just leaning over to mutter something in his ear when he suddenly froze in his awkward position, all the muscles in his body tensing up. Ralph looked at his face and noted that the man was looking at something over at the duchess' end of the long table with not a small measure of distaste in his expression, just as the duchess let out a delighted squeal.

"_Jackie_! Dear boy, do come here and give us a kiss!"

Ralph turned around to look.

And his world stopped moving.


	4. Chapter 4

The tall, underfed singer bent over to kiss the duchess' hand, a lock of fiery hair falling into his eyes as he did so.

"Agatha. You look stunning, as ever."

He flashed his teeth at her. She giggled.

"And you flatter me, you naughty boy. I know I'm an old woman. Now, see here, love, there's someone I want you to meet –"

Ralph knew what was coming. Somehow, from some deep dark corner of his mind he hadn't visited in ages, a numbing voice came and told him. Change. This was big. The cogs of the world stopped turning, his ears rang, he barely noticed the concerned glance George shot him as his eyes went huge with fatal dread, and he froze in his seat.

The duchess gestured with her plump, glittering hand at him.

The man looked up with slightly bored expectation in his eyes.

Their gazes met.

Piercing blue eyes, a bit deep-set, now widened for a moment in shock. The rest of the face was equally striking, with its pronounced cheekbones and narrow cheeks. Only a few freckles remained of the generous amount Ralph was used to seeing. They did nothing to soften the impression. The smile curving the red lips at the moment was not at all like George's, and now it widened into a Cheshire grin.

Ralph could feel his own mouth twisting with dislike and something akin to hatred. He'd just managed to make a normal life for himself, had just been promoted, had found someone who could perhaps be… well, something important to him, at any rate – and now this. The goddamned _bastard _just had to come waltzing into his life and – he wanted to hit something. He tried to school his face back into indifference. It almost worked, but the old Duchess' keen eyes and inbuilt intrigue-detector were not so easily avoided.

"Now, young Mr Weatherton, you look absolutely gobsmacked. Do you two boys _know_ each other?"

"We're old acquaintances."

Again that smile. To Ralph's intense frustration, there was no other word for it than charming, and he so wanted there to be. He was so busy searching for one, that he barely heard Jack saying something undoubtedly inane to the Duchess about how long it had been since they'd last seen each other, and wasn't it a pity?

"Well, then my dear young Ralph, you mustn't sit over there! Here," she gestured eagerly to a chair next to her, "take Alfred's seat, he won't be back at once. I imagine he's had one sherry too many and fallen asleep in the salon…"

Ralph gnashed his teeth quietly, but rose from his current seat with calm and precision. Making his way down the table to the Duchess' end, he kept his gaze steady on the personified evil that was standing there, relaxed and self-assured, in a black suit that screamed of exquisite tailoring and ridiculously high prices.

He would later be told that nothing whatsoever had shown on his face. But as he walked those few steps toward what felt like sudden and irrevocable doom, his nerves had been tingling like mad, making him want to roll his shoulders or stretch his muscles. He felt confined, trapped, and his hands were numb and cold.

He took the empty chair two seats from the Duchess', and kept his eyes on the tablecloth as Jack lowered his thin persona into the one between Ralph and 'dear Agatha'; leaning back comfortably and looking like he owned the house.

The silence between the two of them was more oppressing than Nazi Germany, but nobody along the table seemed to notice. Not even the Duchess appeared to be perturbed in the least. She'd turned her attention elsewhere already, and was busily discussing politics with someone at the other end of the long table, if her speaking volume was anything to judge by.

Ralph cautiously raised his eyes, and to his horror, they met George's. There was a question in the brown orbs which he really didn't know how to answer. He tried to look helpless and apologetic. George's mouth twisted slightly, but he smiled and broke eye contact, and turning away, he quietly engaged some elderly man in conversation.

Ralph sighed through closed teeth.

"So. Ralph."

The blond shut his eyes briefly, then fixed them on the white linen again as if his gaze alone could set it on fire.

Unfortunately, that made him imagine himself fleeing from a funeral pyre of charred wood. And that really didn't help.

"Yes?" he bit out.

"How have you been?"

Before he could remember control, he'd already turned in his seat.

"How have I _been_?"

That face. It had obviously changed over the years, elongated, the features evening out and becoming better proportioned, but he was still ugly as hell, in Ralph's opinion. And those eyes, which were currently boring into him like beams of concentrated light, making him feel incredibly small and naked…

An incredible anger rose in him. There was no way in hell that he would sit here and cower like a girl, at age twenty-two. He forced himself to smile.

"I've been just fine, thanks. Went into the Navy, like my dad. Just got promoted, in fact."

As the reddish eyebrows lifted coolly, he allowed himself a moment of triumph. Beat that.

"You?"

"Oh, you know," Jack drawled. "I get by. Singing, mostly. It pays nicely. And I get to do what I like." His eyes glinted.

"And you must be very happy in your job, I imagine?" A slow lazy grin curved across his mouth, and brought to mind animals baring their teeth. "So much _sea_."

Ralph shuddered. The fact was, he wasn't overly fond of the sea anymore. But he never let that on, either to his fellow officers or his father. For a while, being on the ocean for weeks on end and never seeing land had been a dream. Now it was an obligation, and the main (and only) reason he ever touched alcohol.

"Or maybe not."

The silky voice snapped him out of his reverie.

Jack was watching him, still smiling, but it never really reached his eyes, and the satisfied cunning reflected in them was almost enough to make Ralph punch him in the mouth.

Almost.

As it was, he merely forced another smile, but he was not about to sit here and take this much longer. If Jack thought him a coward, then so be it. At least he had the sense to stop before it became an outright fight. He wasn't so sure if that applied to them both.

Getting up from his seat and pushing his chair in, he touched the Duchess politely on the shoulder and waited impatiently until she had finished her tirade, before addressing her.

"You really must excuse me, lady Narborough, but I'm getting kind of cold. I think I'll take a walk, warm up a bit."

She gave him a flustered reply which seemed to mean "All right, my dear boy" – or at least he took it to mean that – and with that and a quick bow, he left the room at a brisk pace, not looking back. He could feel Jack's eyes on him, but he resisted the temptation to whirl around and give him a knuckle sandwich.

_He's not worth it._

Outside in the hall, he upped his pace one more notch until he was almost running.

His heart was pounding a mile a minute, and it almost felt like he was running away again. He pushed that feeling down. There were more important things, like focusing on how to find his way through the gigantic house.

At last he reached the salon that the Duchess had mentioned. In one of the soft-looking armchairs, an old man was snoring loudly, an empty glass and half-full bottle on the spindly wooden table next to him. Ralph assumed he must be Alfred.

Breathing deeply and shakily, he collapsed in one of the other chairs – it proved to be just as soft as it looked – and closed his eyes.

Right about now he was really starting to wish he liked sherry.


	5. Chapter 5

****

A/N: Another extremely short chapter (sigh), but it leads up to some good stuff. If the story complies with my wishes, that is.

* * *

It took a couple of minutes before the truth settled along his tingling nerves.

Jack Merridew was actually here.

It seemed incredible, and it felt so wrong – a bit like a human bone in a cheery painting or a jigsaw piece that was in complete discord with the rest – yet there was no denying it. Here he certainly was.

He was a murderer, twice over. Of course Ralph knew that was slightly unfair, that they had been children and afraid. He knew that he was being irrational – but he kept seeing gentle Simon bloodied and broken on the beach, and sensible Piggy with a gaping hole in his head, and that made it _very_ hard to sympathise with the elegant man who was laughing and smiling with the elite as though nothing had happened.

And he still sang. Such pure notes coming from a throat that Ralph, for one, failed to associate with anything other than hoarse screams and grotesque chants. Hearing his voice earlier that evening had struck a familiar chord somewhere deep in remembrance, and now he knew why.

Ralph shuddered, despite having taken a seat close to a merrily crackling fireplace. It was like taking a headfirst dive into the past, and he did _not_ like headfirst dives, into anything. The impulsiveness which he used to possess had been outgrown and left behind at an alarming rate. At least that's what his therapist had told his mother.

A loud snore from Alfred broke into his thoughts, reminding him that he was still sitting in the duchess of Narborough's salon.

All right. He was in the Navy, for heaven's sake, he should be able to think in situations like this one.

Jack was here. So what? He was just another person now, right? It was perfectly possible for Ralph to walk past him, into the front hall, fetch his coat, and go home, without exchanging another word with the man.

In fact, it was something of a duty. Being the level-headed one and attacking only in defence seemed to be his job somehow.

All right. He nodded a little with this new resolve. He would quite simply leave now, before things went any further, and if the Duchess didn't like that, then so be it. Fine society was never his thing anyway.

Rising from the chair, he was just about to quietly exit the salon the same way he'd come, when –

"There you are. You just left. Are you all right?"

He almost sighed in frustration as he turned around. There, leaning against the doorway and looking all in all very good, was George. Ralph immediately felt guilty. He'd completely forgotten about him.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just… a bit of a headache." He smiled faintly.

George narrowed his eyes at him, and for a moment they seemed to sparkle amber. Ralph tried to avoid staring.

"You told the duchess you were cold. So make up your mind. Which is it?"

Another sharp jolt of guilt shot through him. Damn. Before he had the chance to make a suitable answer, George spoke again.

"I think it was because of that other bloke – Jack or whatever. You're not just old acquaintances, are you?"

Ralph fiddled with his sleeve.

"What were you?" George's eyes bored into his own, as though the answer would be written behind the irises. "Is he an old lover or something?" he finally sighed.

Ralph choked.

"_No_! What?" He vaguely registered that his eyes were wide as saucers and that he still hadn't closed his mouth.

"I – how on earth did you – no, he's not. Absolutely not." He shuddered. "Never in a million years."

George was watching him with faint amusement, a little smile not quite allowed to spread.

"In that case, perhaps you'd care to come back to the main hall?" He arched an eyebrow. "They're about to start dancing."

The blond groaned. Dancing. Could the evening possibly get worse? When he next spoke, his voice was practically pleading.

"George, I hate dancing." He tried to look as exhausted and pitiful as possible, hoping for mercy. But there was nothing for it. The brunet merely stepped forward and, gently but firmly, took hold of his arm.

"Come now. It's all swing, I'm sure it'll be perfectly enjoyable."

And with that he led a resigned Ralph out of the salon and back to the dance hall.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: Oh Jesus. That was so not intentional, I feel kinda bad for being such a slowpoke with this. And this isn't even the full 6th part really, the most interesting stuff isn't there. But it'll come sooner or later. Just a warning that it might end up being 'later'. School is killing me, I did most of this chappie in one sitting when I finally had some work-free time. --is dead-- Oh well. Hope you like. XD

* * *

By the time they entered the main hall again, the music was playing full blast, and the floor was starting to get crowded with people dancing or simply standing around talking.

Ralph was bracing himself for what would surely be an evening of hell.

His companion, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. There was a warm smile on his lips as he watched the couples moving with the music. From time to time someone would do an impressive spin or something even more daring, and he would applaud silently, eyes sparkling, and one corner of his mouth would tug up.

Ralph found himself relaxing slowly but surely, watching the other and drinking in his calm. Maybe, just maybe, this would be all right. If only he didn't get pestered to go on that floor, he could probably make it through the evening with only minor trauma.

When a waiter came by with a tray full of champagne glasses, George swiped two off of him with a graceful move that spoke of many years' practice. It reminded Ralph yet again that the cheerful, easygoing young man had probably grown up in a castle-like house with cold rooms and perhaps equally cold parents. He gladly accepted the glass that was offered him. If he was going to watch people dance swing all night – and most likely turn down a couple of offers himself – he figured some alcohol couldn't hurt. Even if it was champagne.

George's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"You look like a right little ray of sunshine." A twinkle in his eyes took the sting from the words.

The blond blushed a little. "I know, I'm sorry. But this whole gig is just depressing."

A small chuckle. "Indeed it is. Are you sure you don't want to dance?"

He almost choked on his champagne before he realised that it was an invitation to dance _separately_, not together. Then he wanted to hit himself for thinking something so completely stupid.

"Well, you know…" he fumbled, feeling sure his face must be beet red by now, "Thank you for asking, but I'd rather just stay here and watch."

George's shoulders slumped a little, but he didn't ask again, just turned his gaze back to the floor, leaving the other feeling bad, though he didn't really know why. _What's so fun about getting me to dance anyway?_

After a while he started to feel bored, however. The chairs were uncomfortable, George was looking uncomfortable, and the others seemed to be having fun.

He had almost decided that the dancing was probably worth a shot when he spotted a particular couple at the other end of the room: A tall, slender platinum blonde beauty, dancing with a certain redhead.

Ralph looked away, focusing on someone doing an impressive twirl somewhere else in the throng of people, but his gaze kept being drawn back to the familiar figure. It was like one of those optical illusion pictures – once you've noticed the hidden image it becomes impossible to overlook. There was nowhere else to look but at the long-limbed, feline grace, which seemed to occupy the whole floor somehow, or the world. He could dance, there was no choice but to admit it.

_He's more at home with a whole different type of Dance though_, Ralph found himself thinking grimly, almost savagely. He pushed that feeling as far down as it would go and tried to look away from the spectacle before him. It worked very badly.

After a good while more of pointless staring, he finally figured it was about time he got off this chair, before Jack noticed him looking. Some irrational impulse grabbed hold of his brain then, and turning to George, he smiled a little. "Did you say dance?"

It was worth it just to watch the way the other's face lit up at the question, and they set their champagne glasses aside to join the mad, stupid-looking people dancing to noisy music. But it felt good. He'd made someone happy in a very very small way, and as that was about the best thing that had happened all evening, it helped to lift his mood just a little.

As it turned out he wasn't a wholly unattractive dance partner: several of the young ladies present at the party seemed relieved to have a new couple of male specimens to twist and twirl with.

He found himself smiling as the steps of the dance settled more firmly in his mind, and he was able to move with more ease and less carefully practiced stiffness. A couple of times he caught George's eye, and the glances he got were full of amber warmth and gentle I-told-you-so.

All in all it was lovely, he chatted with the pliant, talented young women whose names he recalled for the duration of the dance only, and the music seemed like a pleasant backdrop to it all.

Of course good things come to an end, however. Smack bang in the middle of Chuck Berry, there was another pair of eyes sparkling – no, _gleaming_ at him in the slightly dim room (it was getting dark outside, after all, and the Duchess didn't have all that much money to pay electricity bills with).

And then they twirled and circled, and he had to watch his dance partner to make sure he was spinning her right and not into somebody else, and when he looked back, Jack and his blonde, pink-clad dance partner had somehow disappeared. But the smirk lingered in his mind, and made him ill at ease.

When the song ended he was grateful for it. Five dances had come and gone since he got onto the floor, and now it felt as though Jack had ruined it somehow – inserted his presence into something that belonged to Ralph and Ralph alone. Tainted the experience.

So while George was still grinning and on the hunt for a new partner, Ralph bid his latest one a polite goodbye, and thank you ever so much for the dance.

Of course he didn't notice that Jack smoothly handed the blonde over to another fellow, nor the brief kiss to her knuckles, and definitely not the smouldering cobalt eyes or the way she seemed thoroughly disappointed to be let go.

He was so intent on not noticing these things, in fact, that he completely failed to notice when Jack weaved through the people still dancing to the new tune – a waltz – and came up on Ralph from the side. Quick as lightning, he had grabbed the blond around the waist and held their clasped hands up in a perfect dancer's pose. Ralph froze completely in dumbfounded shock, trying to gather his wits enough to throw the madman off.

A flash of white teeth and sharp canines, and the pose dissolved into thin air and tension, and Jack was leading him away from the floor and towards the doorway – but he still had his arm around the blond's waist.

Ralph wanted more than anything to break free, but he couldn't. The warm weight of a steely arm around him seemed to set all his nerves crackling with _something_, and not a particularly pleasant something, either.

He just had time to catch a glimpse of George's face before they exited the main hall, and he couldn't help but wince. The brown eyes were full of worry and disappointed resignation, and Ralph understood perfectly well why. George must think that Jack had meant something to him once – something positive. He had no idea how very wrong he was.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Oooh, Lord. As anyone with brains can see, this one is gonna be posted at (long) intervals. I sincerely apologise, school is being hell right now and eating me alive. Probably won't change soon either. I'll try and use weekends or something. xD That said, hope you like it. ^^

* * *

Ralph managed to keep from exploding until they reached the entrance hall, at which point he twisted roughly out of the redhead's grasp, earning an amused-sounding chuckle. The loss of contact felt strange; the sharp tingling in his skin dying down to something oddly warm. He rolled his broad shoulders out of habit, as though hoping to shake it off, wanting nothing from the man who was now leaning against the banister of the stairs leading to the dance hall. Sharp cobalt eyes were boring into Ralph's, challenging.

"Merridew…" He tried to keep his voice from shaking, but by now he was angry enough not to care much. "What – the _hell_ – is this about?"

His entire body was quivering with suppressed emotions, most of it rage. Best of all he would have liked to punch the despicable idiot in the jaw. But Jack had made no move to attack yet, and there was no way that Ralph was going to give in to rage first. The rules were still in place.

Taking deep breaths, he somehow managed to calm himself, unclenching his hands and relaxing a fraction. Jack grinned, almost fondly.

"That's better. You see, there's no need to be so angry. I just wanted to talk to you a little." Then, with a smirk, "You're frightfully uptight."

Something glinted in his eyes, some of the icy clarity disappearing.

Ralph huffed. However, taking in the stance of the other man, he gradually came to believe him. There wasn't a tensed muscle on his skinny frame. He certainly did not look as if he were preparing to pounce on anyone.

"All right, so what do you want?" He asked, throwing his hands out.

A patronising sigh. "Boy, are you slow. Just to talk, I told you." The redhead went pensive a short moment, then asked: "How's your old man?"

Ralph immediately drew back a little, frowning. Was it a threat? "He's.. fine. Why?"

Coming to sit on the stairs not far from Ralph, Jack glanced at him pointedly, his irritated look much the same as always. "I was just wondering. You said he was in the Navy."

With an effort, Ralph managed to stop looking like a goldfish.

"Well… yeah. He's fine. Things are.. fine." After a moment of quite violent internal struggle, he forced himself to ask the same question in return. It struck him that he'd never heard anything of the other's parentage, way back then.

As it turned out, Jack's parents were wealthy. Hardly a surprise. They were also busy, and cold as freezers. It appeared they had hardly reacted when their child came home. As Jack said with a smirk, after the initial fuss, he'd been dropped into the hands of an unfortunate therapist – and then another – and another. They all gave up before long, and he'd been largely left in peace. He seemed quite happy with this turn of events.

Sitting there talking to him – _talking._ to _him._ – Ralph found himself reeling a little. The change from brewing hostility to almost civil conversation had taken him very much off guard. Yet it was difficult to summon up the anger from before when the object of it was behaving so rationally for once, and Ralph found that he didn't truly want to either. Being wary was one thing, and God knows he was. But hatred wasn't his thing really. Jack had an incredible ability to bring out the worst in him, but that didn't mean he had to let him.

"Look. Ralph. This – " he directed a vague gesture at his immaculate self and the posh house around them " – is great. It's convenient, and easy, and perfectly satisfactory… but _God_, is it boring." Blue eyes locked on Ralph's as the other went on disgustedly, "What use is recognition, and power, if you don't even have to work to achieve it? You strive to get there, and once you're there, you're done. Finished. That's that. You have no _idea_ what an anticlimax it is."

"I… can imagine", Ralph said stiffly, trying not to think too hard about Jack's previous claim to power.

"And I know why that is, too. It's the people. They're so damned easy to please. You throw them a high note, they fall at your feet. There's just no challenge. And you know I work best when I'm up against it," he added, his intense gaze entreating Ralph to understand.

"And…?" Ralph questioned warily, not quite seeing where Jack was going with this and not sure he wanted to know.

"I need a challenge. Or I'm going to go crazy." Ralph politely refrained from comment. "I need some more stimulating company than stupid fans and obese duchesses. And who better to give me that, than you?"

To his credit, he didn't try for a winning smile at least. He just kept up the same unwavering look.

Ralph stared.

"You want me to… to what, exactly? Be at your disposal? A bit of friendly rivalry when you feel like it?" He couldn't believe he was hearing this. After what the other had done!

"I'm not going to be your… plaything. Jack. I have a life now, sorry to tell you. I've moved on. If you can't do the same, that's your problem, not mine." Ralph got up swiftly, looking down at the other. He had been prepared to forgive and forget all these years, had figured that Jack had been just a scared child back then, like all of them. And believing that, he'd almost managed to let it go. But Jack wasn't anywhere near the guilt-ridden reformed sinner he had, perhaps foolishly, expected. He was just as bad as ever. And he was _not_ attractive.

The other man didn't seem notably affected, nor particularly surprised. His eyes never left the blond's face as he got up. Inclining his head a little, he said in a polite manner that went poorly with the gleam in his eyes, "That's all right. I never expected another answer really."

As he headed for the double doors, a servant of some sort – who, to Ralph's mortification, had probably been lurking in the hall all along – came up to him with his ridiculously expensive coat. "Just remember," the redhead added oh-so-casually, turning, "If you change your mind, I'm in the phonebook."

And with that the servant fellow held open the door for him, and he vanished into the chilly darkness of the late evening, leaving Ralph behind with a less than intelligent look on his face.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** Okay, I imagine that at this point I'm mostly writing this one for myself. XD But who knows, maybe someone will stumble upon it sometime. If so, I hope you like it, whoever you are. :)

* * *

After Jack's abrupt departure, it had taken Ralph a little while to gather his wits enough to move. The proposition had been absurd enough to completely throw him off balance. It seemed incredible that the other man could even consider such a solution, much less seriously suggest it to anyone. But suggest it he had.

Still reeling, Ralph decided he'd had enough of the whole party and distractedly went about the business of fetching his jacket and getting ready to leave. Though his mind was a whirl of confusing and sometimes conflicting thoughts and impulses, one thing seemed fairly clear: he couldn't possibly go along with what Jack asked.

It wasn't even a matter of whether or not he wanted to – and for that he felt curiously relieved. It was simply not doable for Ralph to let that person into his life again, when he'd barely survived it last time. Not because he was a coward, he told the little annoying voice in the back of his mind sternly. Because he was reasonable.

And because he had morals, besides. It still happened that he saw them in his dreams, the others. Piggy with a yawning hole in his skull, darkly staining the ground underneath. Simon's broken body shining silver-white in the sparkling water as he was pulled out with the tide. If it hadn't been for Jack, those things and many others wouldn't have happened. He owed it to the memory of his friends not to consort with the redhead again. And if another little voice inside his mind somewhere piped up that maybe revisiting past events was the only way to get closure and perhaps even bring about a change in himself (or in someone who needed it a whole lot more)… then Ralph stopped his ears to it.

Too distracted to say properly goodbye to anyone, he left the duchess' house never to return there, and it wasn't until he was almost home that he realized that he'd utterly forgotten George. By then, of course, it was too late to do anything about that. He went home and collapsed into bed.

* * *

In the weeks following the above mentioned social event, Ralph's life had been unusually quiet. His work had taken a decisive turn for the dreary. There was little to do, and what there was, didn't seem to interest him as much as it used to.

He normally felt at least some sense of belonging on the job, where he had his friends and acquaintances. Now, however, it seemed the only aspects of work he was able to see were the unpleasant ones. He often found himself staring out across the sea, whether he was on it or on solid ground. The neverending expanse of water unnerved him more now than before.

_So much sea_. It seemed as if that comment had triggered something within his own mind, pushed to the fore something which previously had been much less prominent. The water seemed ominous. Which part of it he was seeing didn't seem to matter. The Atlantic, the North Sea, the Pacific – they were all just parts of a whole, really, an overwhelming body of blue. Ready to drown the inattentive, or abruptly snatch them from their intended course and lead them far away from all that was known to man.

Thoughts like these refused to let go of him, no matter what he was doing, it didn't matter. If he could see the ocean, he felt uneasy. All his life he'd wanted to tame the ocean, to prove that he could master it. That a small and fragile human could create safe passage for himself in spite of the forces of nature, through man's own ingenuity.

Lately, however, the feeling of being up against something that was too big for him, of only having touched the tip of the iceberg, was starting to come back. Thanks to this, his days seemed gray and unappealing to him. He found that he was really just going through the motions, without caring for them.

When he thought about it, he knew what, or rather who, he had to thank for this, of course. He knew also that said person would probably be inordinately pleased to hear it. And that knowledge, combined with a stubborn nature, eventually convinced Ralph that the only possible course of action was to pull himself together and stick it out. If he could just manage to not think about Jack and his snide remarks, then sooner or later the gloom was bound to pass. Jack Merridew was no specter, after all, no evil spirit. He was flesh and blood, and this was nothing but a battle of wills.

So taking deep breaths, and trying not to look at the water more than necessary, Ralph remained where he was, taking care of his duties, and breathing a sigh of relief whenever he could flop down on his own well-worn couch with a mystery novel or perhaps some music on the wireless.

All in all he wasn't feeling so very bad. The effort of not thinking about anything but his duties while he was working, and the subsequent tired relaxation when he wasn't, largely kept him occupied and untroubled, and probably he would have eventually forgotten the other young man altogether, had it not been for what happened in November.

One day right at the beginning of that month, he was sitting in his living room, not doing much of anything, having declined an offer from his friends to go to the moving pictures. Just as he was getting up to fetch his book or perhaps call a mate up and go back on his "no", a low crack and rattle caught his attention. Casting his eyes around the room, he noticed nothing amiss, but once he started going the round of the flat he soon found the reason. In the hall, by the door, lay an innocuous white envelope which had just tumbled in through the letterbox.

Ralph frowned. Today was a Sunday. Why would anyone go to the trouble of sticking a letter through his letterbox on a Sunday when they could have it done by the postman any other day? Bending down, he picked the letter up – no address on the front, just his name – and flipped it over.

There it was, logical now that he was seeing it, like the obvious solution to a riddle. A semi-posh home address slightly smudged from the autumn rain, and the inexorable name: Jack Merridew.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:** If this feels somewhat poorly rounded-off at the end, it's because it is. *blushes* I was going to continue a little further before starting part 10, but then it didn't work out. Figured I might as well post this, better than nothing (I hope). Hope you like. :)

* * *

_Dear Ralph_

_I must say I feel we got off somewhat on the wrong foot. You clearly did not welcome my proposition, which I think is a great shame. Therefore I would very much like to start over._

_I do not intend to demand anything of you. But we've shared a lot, you and me. And I know you're not the type to hold something against a man for so many years afterwards. You've a much nobler character than that. So I would like to ask you again._

_I think we have a lot to give each other. The truth is I've always missed being around someone with the same experiences as myself. And you, who've always had such a great and open heart, must have felt the same need, I'm sure of it. I think you could have benefited nicely from a meeting. And in all honesty, it would be unfair of you to deny me. You know very little about me and who I am. Did you even remember my surname before we met again at that party? I wouldn't have thought you'd be so quick to judge._

_Think about it. Then let me know. I won't give until you say yes anyway. You can choose the place if you would like._

_Fond regards,_

_Jack_

A couple of seconds passed before the inevitable hit him. Letterbox. No address, just his name.

He fumbled to unlatch the door and tore it open, dashing out into the hall, trying to make as little noise as possible, but the stairs were empty. Not a sound could be heard, and he knew the acoustics in this stairwell – if you heard no-one, it meant there was no-one.

For a second or two he stood there, his breathing slowing to normal, no doubt looking quite foolish. Feeling an odd sort of deflating as the adrenaline kick faded out, he went back to his flat and locked the door behind him again.

For a little while Ralph stood stock still, leaning against the door, staring at the letter. Reading it over and over. He couldn't make head or tail of it. It oscillated between polite and insolent, humble and demanding, seemingly honest and almost undoubtedly sarcastic. The handwriting was neat – much better than his own, he thought distractedly –but common manners was apparently not something the redhead excelled at. All of these things he could have expected, however, and they did little more than puzzle him. The uncomfortable thing was that the letter had touched a nerve.

Ralph _had_ manners, and with a resigned feeling he realized that he agreed with one point in the strange missive: it would be unfair of him to refuse to meet again. It was in his job description to be the one with – what was it – a 'great and open heart'. He snorted.

Giving into a demand like this was ridiculous. Feeling that he had to was even worse. But he knew himself enough to be aware that if he didn't say yes, he would never get peace of mind again.

Still holding the letter, he got up, shaking his head. "Stupid," he mumbled resignedly.

At the table he sat down and started penning a reply. It was very slow work. He spent minutes trying to decide if he should actually write 'Dear Jack'. It seemed such a blatant lie that he felt sure he would be mocked for it, if not by the other man then by his own self-conscious mind. In the end, however, he came to the conclusion that just opening the letter with "Jack" would be impolite, and he didn't want to gain a reputation for lack of tact.

_Dear Jack_

_You're right – I didn't much like your proposition. But perhaps it came across in a way you had not intended. I'm willing to give this another chance. However I should make it clear that if you truly want to spend time with me, I expect you to be civil, or the deal is off._

Here he paused, chewing the end of the pencil. The question was where to meet and when. For a moment he considered whether it might not be better to meet on familiar ground. His own apartment or environs would give him an advantage. But that would mean granting Jack access to his personal sphere. The slinking predator of a man had clearly already been lurking around the neighbourhood in order to deliver his letter, perhaps even spying. Ralph found he was rather hesitant to open the last barrier to him and literally invite him across the threshold. No, a neutral place it would have to be.

_We can meet up in town_, he wrote_. A cafe or a pub or something would do nicely._

Hesitating and finally deciding he should just face this head on instead of putting it off, he suggested that they schedule their rendezvous – no, meeting – for the coming Saturday. That way he imagined he would appear unafraid, but not too eager. Also, he could be sure that Jack would receive his letter in time, even though he personally intended to have it delivered the _normal_ way.

The following five and a half days were spent in distracted fretting, his thoughts constantly returning to Jack Merridew. It was still a strange sensation. He had rebuilt the security of his new – or rather his old – life on the very certainty that he would never be hunted down and threatened again. And now he was back. But no, he told himself sternly. The circumstances were utterly different; he was quite safe.

Every now and then he found himself glancing at the clock, counting down. One day and five hours... one day and two hours... until he would be face to face with Jack, voluntarily. He couldn't really imagine himself sitting down with him, at a table somewhere, to have a normal conversation. Jack didn't converse normally, he communicated only through bragging or force. What would he be like? How would he behave? How would he appear? In a flash he remembered the arrogant but amusing boy he first got to know.

And why was he, Ralph, so geared up about all this? It was just a meeting, and Jack was just a man. He was vaguely aware that he tended in his own private thoughts to lose track of the _real_ Jack Merridew – to raise him to some pedestal of universal gloom and threat.

The morning before the meeting, he woke gasping from a dream he hadn't had in ages. Dream Ralph lay on the ground in the dark, petrified, unable to move a finger. With a sick sense of dread, growing gradually to blind terror, he helplessly watched as a thin and creeping human silhouette came closer, moving to straddle him, something sharp and metallic glinting in its hand.

He bolted upright in bed, the sheets around him like a straitjacket, his own shaky breaths seeming to echo in the room.

By the time Saturday came rolling 'round he was almost relieved.


End file.
